


death is in the last six inches of the bow

by nightofdean



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Minor Character Death, PTSD, mentions of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 14:18:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19395886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightofdean/pseuds/nightofdean
Summary: The soothing sounds of Bach and Chopin used to be a balm to his soul, now it conjured images of mangled bodies and the cacophonous exploding of bombs.





	death is in the last six inches of the bow

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from benjamin zander's "interpretations class | elegy " on youtube where he says something similar

When he first gets to camp he’s assaulted on all sides by the sounds of choppers landing, people yelling, undertones of panic in their voice. The OR is even worse for Charles because it’s simply not what he’s used to, he used to be in Tokyo taking care of the people who’d already been operated on. Pierce and B.J.’s constant chatter disrupts his thoughts and yes, he does scratch his nose the first day.

The first time he plays Chopin in the swamp it’s blissful even when Pierce and B.J. interrupt the music with their slightly manic post operation chatter. He tips his head back and listens to the mournful yet still comforting sounds of the philharmonic orchestra. 

As time goes on, the mournful notes of Chopin and the upbeat quality of Bach start to feel hollow. He picks up the French horn, in hopes of creating his own unique sound out of the hollow where he used to feel inspired by the great composers. The camp takes exception to his need to feel _something_ in all this hell and dirt. He doesn’t try to send for a new horn. 

It’s not until he meets the pianist that his fervor for music surges anew. Not the same as before but all the same it comes back. He finds a simple composition suitable for an accomplished pianist for the left hand, and it is simply beautiful. 

It also unveils a new side of music to him, the tragedy and pain that went into Chopin’s compositions. The need for a left-handed piece, he even considered the silly war songs the men in camp sang, the longing and suffering that produced those pieces, “ _I’ll be home for Christmas_ ” he recalled scoffing at the lowbrow song. 

Now the aching longing of a lost love that reverberated in the pull of bow string over the six-string violin, he could feel it – not the longing for a lost love – but the sadness, the deep deep sadness. Dug deep in his heart, hot and wet, brought to the surface of his throat, burning the corners of his eyes.

He listens to the record player less and less until he almost stops completely.

Then he loses the Chinese orchestra, he, unknowingly or not, tried to teach them the classics to reconnect. Peace was called, and he was going to be returning home. He foolishly thought he could leave the men something from his culture. Instead they ended up leaving parts of themselves embedded in his soul.

Charles tries listening to Chopin, recalling the faces of the Chinese musicians, their hands skillfully working the instruments he knew little about, trying to teach a piece unsuited to the instruments and himself who was no teacher. Charles could admit now that he was jealous of the men, of their connection to music, to the instruments. He dreamed as a boy of having a career in as a musician, even played the trumpet for some time, but gave it up like the recalcitrant child he was. Charles never stopped loving music though, the sound of bow against string, the reverberation of sound inside the deep wooden belly of the cello. It never failed to calm him, after long difficult surgeries.

Now what was once a soothing experience, conjured real images of napalm burned bodies, severed limbs, and the torturous illusions from his own mind of Chinese musicians twisted corpses, lips parted peacefully, eyes closed in deep repose, as if lied to sleep. More often, his imagination, when feeling more in a depressed mood conjured images of the musicians in pieces, unrecognizable to even his memory and he smashed all his records in frustration. Disgusted at himself for ever taking enjoyment from the depressed melodies of a suffering man translating his woes to music. Yet, there was a phrase about just that, that great beauty came from suffering, only now Charles was seeing how ridiculous that sounded, and that only someone who didn’t understand suffering would say such a thing.

He rather thinks he won’t enjoy music again.


End file.
